Almost three decades back I emerged as a wound blessed by a city's black sun with toppings of dandruff dust. I have worsened in health since, every new shade of purple unraveling a layer of gorgeous hurt. In lieu of my beautiful condition, I believe I'm one good secretion away from healing. Once I heard my mother wail the shrillest sound I've ever known. Its sonic beam threading a drinking glass into a rind of singularity. Like me it would never be the same again. When no one's looking I'm clutching the sun to suck at its lumen, tear a bridge of crimson and hide a flare in my gut. This thieving is my reason to live, a way to witness the visiting hawk of fear gyrate on the celling fan's blade. Switched on, it's chiasmus, a birdsong in reverse. Look how my mother hasn't seen the sun in years but has no yearning. This, the property of deliquescence: how a body imbibes from air stillness of time. Look, even I'm getting better in drafting apology for celebrating the ooze of decay. How things are connected is sheer impossibility of being. I know healing is a task best left to itself but in dense irritation, I find myself lurching from a doorbell's ring expelling rivers of history and like a caterpillar's blade, forever teething.